


i am here like there is sky and there is air

by Lauren (notalwaysweak)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 01:26:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalwaysweak/pseuds/Lauren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: 'Anything so long as it's Erika-centric. Like why they come to Night Vale, why they stay, are they on the run from Heaven, are they messengers, harbingers... Angel adventures, please!' It did end up a tad Josie-centric but I hope it is still Erika-centric enough!</p>
            </blockquote>





	i am here like there is sky and there is air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Croik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Croik/gifts).



> Welcome to Night Vale does not belong to me and I am not making any money or imaginary corn off this work of fan fiction.
> 
> Thank you to my Cecil, my beta, for fixing the things that went horribly wrong at three in the morning.
> 
> * * *

The Erikas are human-shaped most of the time; Josie thinks it’s because it’s a more useful shape in general than balls of brilliant light, or the one that she can only describe as a wheel of eyes. Sometimes they have wings and sometimes they don’t; it depends on how they feel, or what needs doing. They are ten feet tall when she first meets them, but over time get shorter, unless they need to be taller. Or need to be balls of brilliant light. Or wheels of eyes.

In the beginning it’s hard for her to tell them apart because of their changes, but she soon learns the differences. Erika usually has black skin and black irises but purple pupils that hold the light of distant stars. Erika usually has soft blonde curls just past shoulder-length and a body that curves softly as well. And Erika usually has laughing green eyes and unbelievably long straight red hair.

Of course, that’s just the surface. Erika’s voice is a soothing baritone; Erika’s voice is a fluting soprano that sometimes jumps two octaves in a sentence, which should be disconcerting but isn’t; and Erika’s voice has just the barest hint of an Irish lilt. Josie doubts there’s anywhere called Ireland where the Erikas are from.

Erika likes to work around the house, and Erika likes to paint seascapes and write poems, and Erika likes to go through Josie’s bookshelves, picking a new volume out each night to read from. Since their arrival in Night Vale, Josie has heard snippets of _Anna Karenina_ and _The Stand_ and _Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats_ , amongst others.

Some of them she doesn’t remember ever buying, but Erika has explained that bookshelves have their own ideas about what belongs on them. Josie knows full well that Erika sometimes dares to cross the threshold of the Night Vale Public Library to bring back new words for Josie to listen to, settled back against her carefully fluffed pillows at night.

 

One night she asks, “Why me? Why here? Why now?”

And Erika says, “It was morning, and the new sun sparkled gold across the ripples of a gentle sea.”

Beside Erika, Erika turns the easel around to show blue and green and white, oil on canvas that looks to Josie as if Erika has taken the sand wastes and changed their colors from summer-warm to winter-cool. But the sky is the same cerulean blue as it is over Night Vale, so it cannot be a mere inversion of hues.

“Please. I’ve never asked you before.”

“A mile from shore a ﬁshing boat chummed the water, and the word for Breakfast Flock ﬂashed through the air, till a crowd of a thousand seagulls came to dodge and ﬁght for bits of food. It was another busy day beginning.”

The bird on Erika’s canvas is pure white with just the hint of black at its wingtips, but Josie can only imagine ravens when Erika says _flock_ , and she cannot imagine _water_ at all, not the way that Erika means it. Water is from taps, or sometimes rain, or... she remembers a _river_ , rushing, squalling over rocks, white-water-frothing, but not gentle, never gentle. It frustrates her, but she doesn’t know how to say so.

On her other side, Erika’s strong hand covers hers, squeezing a little as Erika continues reading. Erika’s mouth doesn’t open, because speaking over Erika’s reading would be rude, but Josie feels the thought, _this story says more than we can say_ , float into her mind.

_How can I understand how this relates to you when I don’t even know what a seagull is?_

_Listen and learn._ Erika’s mental presence withdraws and, though Josie pushes to reestablish the connection, Erika is closed to her for the time being.

 

The problem with learning from _Jonathan Livingston Seagull_ is that Erika says the same thing about every book that Erika reads to Josie and that Erika tries to explain by painting. It’s the same with the radio, whether it’s one of the talk shows or music or ritual howling. It’s the same with sitting outside in a camp chair and looking at patterns in the bonfire or the clouds or the stars.

 _Listen and learn_ , or, _Watch and learn_ , or even, _Feel and learn_.

Oh, it’s not that she doesn’t learn _some_ things.

She learns that angels don’t need stepladders to dust the top shelves of the cupboards.

She remembers that there is beauty in words of all kind; not the ones hurled in anger, although she hasn’t heard much in the way of those since she was a much younger woman, but all the others, yes, even the strange words of Chuck Palahniuk, or the simple ones of A.A. Milne, which she thinks are much deeper than many people would realize.

She rediscovers the warmth that can come to a burning peak between her thighs, sometimes alone, more often with one or more of the Erikas, who bring hands and lips and tongues to her bed, not to mention anything else they think might please her.

It seems like a base, _human_ thing for angels to do, with fingers made for strumming harps and mouths made for singing holy words, but Josie comes to realize that this too is sacred, and that her voice joined with theirs is an unmatchable hymn.

It galls her to deny the existence of her angels, so she doesn’t.

 

John Peters drops by to bring her a bowl of imaginary Cajun popcorn. The kernels are impossibly light and fluffy and the Erikas all swarm into the kitchen as soon as the farmer has left to cram handfuls into their mouths.

“Enjoy it while it’s here,” Erika opines, raking a hand through her unruly blonde curls. “There may not be any more imaginary corn for a while.”

“I thought imaginary corn was potentially infinite,” Josie says, munching one spicy piece at a time.

“All crops need a farmer,” Erika says.

“But John -- he’s not going anywhere.”

The Erikas exchange a glance. “We’ve said too much,” they chorus.

Josie pushes back her chair and stands up. “You either say too little or too much. Find some middle ground,” she scolds them, and when she exits the room she takes the bowl with her. As far as she’s concerned, it’s as full as she likes.

There’s a feeling like a breath on the back of her neck when she closes the front door behind her, but it’s probably just the faceless old woman and Josie ignores her; they get along fine that way, always have done. She wonders if the angels talk to the faceless old woman, or if they only need one old woman in their lives.

 

Josie doesn’t wander the town as much as she did when she first found her way here, but in fifty years she’s probably seen all that the town has to show her. She is used to small towns. She likes that Night Vale has so few trees; the smell of pine unsettles her.

She carries her bowl straight to the radio station, slips in through the always unlocked side door, and taps Cecil’s name out in Etruscan Morse on the studio glass. His voice doesn’t even falter, bless him; he’s always so professional.

He announces the weather and there’s a gleeful pounding of taiko drums as he slips out of the door to the tiny kitchenette, where Josie is already boiling the kettle.

“Hello, beautiful,” he says, kissing her cheek. “What’s that? Imaginary popcorn? Yes, please.”

“Mind the spices; I think John overdid the paprika,” Josie warns him, returning the kiss. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Carlos has turned me on to chili chocolate, actually.” Cecil looks a little embarrassed. “Not good for the thighs or the tummy, but it’s _so_ delicious.”

“It would go with the popcorn.”

“True! Spices all around, then.” Cecil spoons cocoa into two mugs, tilts his head to listen to something in one of his earphones, pours the boiling water out, and turns to the refrigerator for milk. Everything he does is graceful; if Josie were a little younger and Cecil a little less infatuated with his Carlos, she thinks she would invite him home. She thinks she and the Erikas could show him a few things.

“And how is your young man?” she asks, hoping her thoughts aren’t showing on her face or being picked up by anyone’s telepathy.

Cecil blushes prettily. “Carlos is very well, thank you.”

They barely get a mouthful into the delicious burning drink before an orange light flickers on over the archway back to the main studio area.

“Drat!” Cecil splutters and swallows. “I didn’t realize the weather was so short tonight.”

“Only a mild storm, then,” Josie says.

“I assume so.” He kisses her cheek again. “Would you mind feeding Khoshekh and the kittens? They’re on solids now, same as their parent.”

“Of course.”

Josie finishes her cocoa first, listening to Cecil’s voice coming through the overhead speakers as he welcomes Night Vale back from the weather and goes on to an update about the garden gnome situation. She leaves the popcorn bowl on the bench and rinses her cocoa mug. The cat food is on the bench; Josie pokes the dish until it stops wriggling quite so much and carries it through to the men’s bathroom.

Khoshekh gives her whiskery kisses and eats hungrily from the dish; she holds it in front of him in one hand and hand-feeds the kittens with the other. The four babies are all jet black with summer-sky eyes that blink sleepily at her. They hover around their parent like tiny furry moons orbiting a soft black planet.

A smooth black hand joins hers at the dish. “They are remarkable.”

Josie tries not to jump. “They are.”

“We didn’t mean to make you go away.” Erika is only five feet four inches tall at the moment; Josie knows because they are eye to eye. Usually Erika is taller than her; sometimes Erika and Erika are shorter than her so that she doesn’t feel dwarfed by them, but it’s not their height that makes her feel small. Erika’s wings are present but folded down tightly.

“Sometimes I need time to myself.”

“We understand. That’s why we’re here.” Josie opens her mouth and Erika adds, “Here in Night Vale. Not here in this bathroom. The others are still at home.”

Josie feels a burst of warmth within her at the word _home_. It’’s been some time since the angels first came to her, and she never really realized that her home was their home and not just a way station to someplace else. Like Desert Bluffs. Does Desert Bluffs have angels? Are they like her angels, or are they fallen angels? She rubs her cheek against Khoshekh’s, listening to him purr, letting it lull her mind away from thoughts of Desert Bluffs.

“I’ll come home soon,” she promises. “I just want to say goodnight to Cecil in person.”

Erika nods and embraces her; for a moment the usually firm chest pushes out, curves against her, mirroring her own soft breasts. “We will be there. Erika has chosen a story, and Erika is painting for you.”

Josie kisses Erika’s cheek and watches the angel walk out of the bathroom. She spends a moment longer with Khoshekh and the kittens and then goes back to the kitchenette just in time to hear Cecil’s smooth sign-off to the town. The mouse chorus is up next and their hymns are always pretty, but she’s not in the mood tonight.

He doesn’t seem surprised when he realizes that she’s still there. “Josie... is something wrong?”

“The angels, Cecil,” Erika says bluntly. “Why me? Why here? Why now?”

Cecil sighs and runs his hands through his already rumpled hair. “You know I can’t talk about them. We’re not even supposed to _know_ about them.”

“You know everything. You know everyone. Please, Cecil, I need to know.”

He takes her hands in his, holding them delicately. Josie is weary of being treated as though she will break. She isn’t made of china. “Station Management will hear.”

“Then take me somewhere they _can’t_!”

“I--” Cecil starts, and that’s when Khoshekh bellows a warning and the mice squeak into silence and the broken door at the far end of the hall _slams_ open. Cecil freezes for a second and then sweeps her up into his arms and pelts for the side door, rushing her over the threshold like a bridegroom in reverse. Josie can hear a far-off roaring. They are probably lucky it _is_ far-off.

“Cecil, what on earth--” Carlos is leaning against his car, perfectly dapper except for the long purple smear down the left side of his lab coat.

Cecil sets Josie down and casts a glance back at the door. Nothing is following them.

Yet.

“We have to go. Josie, can you get home safely?”

“It’s not exactly miles -- but Cecil--”

He aims to peck her cheek but misses and his lips graze over hers. She doesn’t mind; they are warm and reassuring, and the way he blushes and fumbles for an apology goes a long way toward settling her nerves. Carlos chuckles and straightens up, stepping toward them to guide Cecil into the car and to give Josie a kiss of his own, this one square on her forehead. The nonchalant comfort of it reminds her of the Erikas.

And really, there’s only one place she will get the answers that she wants.

The taillights fade and Josie walks home, feet gritting in the sand that drifts over everything. She spares one nervous glance back at the radio station, but Station Management has decided they aren’t worth the effort of leaving the office, and the mice are in full voice once more.

 

Erika is waiting on the front porch glider, easel set up on the old wooden boards, brush in hand. There is enough of a breeze to ruffle the blonde curls that cascade down Erika’s back, and Josie touches her own short silver braid self-consciously.

“Perhaps it is time for us to show you,” Erika says, voice fluting more than usual; Josie thinks it’s a sign of anxiety. “Showing you is unsafe, but asking others may be even less safe.”

“Show me what, exactly?”

“Who we are. What we are. Why we are here.” The three of them speak in unison and it’s only then that Josie sees Erika and Erika standing behind the screen door. Both of them are at what she thinks of as their full height; when Erika rises from the glider Josie sees that all of them are back to the way they were at the beginning; more nebulous and undefined than the beings she has grown used to living with.

“Do we have to go somewhere?” she asks tentatively.

The trio press in close around her. “We’re already somewhere,” they chorus.

She is lost in a mist of red and blonde and black hair. Their hands are on her. They turn her and she feels the press of the porch glider seat behind her knees, compelling her to sit. They sit beside her, on her, in her. She is no longer sure which of them is which. She can see the setting sun through them and then the red haze is Erika’s hair instead as Erika leans in and brushes a kiss against each of her eyelids. It is strange; she hadn’t realized that her eyes were closed.

Then her vision opens up, although she could swear her eyes were still closed.

Everything is colors, some she’s never seen before and couldn’t name if she tried. They coalesce together and she’s seeing something in front of her; it’s tiny and she takes a moment to identify it as a grain of sand. Yellow. Unremarkable.

Zoom out, and she’s looking at the sand wastes. Out, and she’s looking at the town like a bird, like an angel on white and black wings. Out, and the town is a speck, the roads in and out silver scribbles. Out, and the entire state is indistinguishable from the rest of the continent.

Josie manages a word, and the word is, “No.”

 _You asked_ , comes the soft, faintly apologetic thought into her mind, and she can no longer tell which of them is speaking.

Out, and the continent is a greenish brownish blur against the white-flecked grey-blue sea.

Out, and now there’s darkness around the edges of her vision. The world is a ball, turning and turning in the dark. The moon is a pitted gray marble flitting across its surface.

Out, and the sun is a grain of sand.

Yellow.

Unremarkable.

“Enough!” Josie throws her arms up to cover her face, but the vision is implacable.

Out, and she can’t even see the sun any more; it’s just a star amongst other stars.

Out, and the galaxy is indistingushable from the others.

Out, and she feels there must be an end, has to be an end soon, because she cannot bear the vastness, the darkness, the movement in the spaces between the light.

 

Out and suddenly she’s breaking through the darkness like a chick from an egg and she opens her mouth to scream because whatever’s outside the darkness cannot possibly be knowable or understandable and her voice is a hollow whisper of nothing and she tries to close her eyes but they’re already closed and she can’t move her arms or her head or anything and she’s hurtling out of darkness into light and light and _light_.

 

Josie wakes up in her own bed. Her throat is tired and sore. Her eyes feel as if someone’s poured soda into her retinas and shaken them. Otherwise she feels remarkably fine for a woman who just got thrown from one end of the universe to the other.

Erika is lying beside her in bed, one dark arm thrown across her stomach. Erika is sitting on the foot of the bed; Josie can smell fresh paint. And Erika is beside the bed, book in hand. All three of them are back to normal, if normal is a term that one can apply to angels. They aren’t wheels of eyes or -- Josie shudders a little -- balls of glowing light, and that’s good enough for her.

“You saw,” Erika says, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

“I did.” Her voice sounds like the crank on a disused well.

“Do you know now why? Why here, why now, why you?”

“It didn’t have to be,” Josie says slowly. “But anywhere... anywhere definite, anywhere fixed, would be better than _everywhere_.”

Erika nods, putting the book down and moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “As we said, we’re already somewhere. Night Vale suits us. We aren’t _required_ to be anything, and so we can be anything we _want_ to be.”

“And what you want is to change porch lights and read books.”

“It’s all the small things. Small things are safer.”

Josie nods. She understands that, now.

Erika moves up from the foot of the bed, settling with arms folded on Josie’s stomach, chin propped on them. “We like it here. We like the town. We like you.” Erika’s fingers are streaked with dried paint and it makes Josie wonder just how long she has been lying here.

“I like you too,” she says, and all three of them smile.

What happens next tests the limits of her small bed’s capacity. It is a long night, but it is a pleasurable night, and it is not an infinite night, and for that Josie is grateful.

She has had enough of infinity to last her, well, forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from 'Savior for a Day' by Public Affection.
> 
> Erika reads from 'Jonathan Livingston Seagull' by Richard Bach.
> 
> The singing mice are a nod to Seanan McGuire's 'InCryptid' series. HAIL!


End file.
